


Self Diagnosis

by Nicolaruth27



Category: Holby City
Genre: CampWolfe, F/F, berena - Freeform, holby city - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8317408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicolaruth27/pseuds/Nicolaruth27
Summary: Tumblr one-shot.Arrhythmia.It is the sudden, erratic flutt-flutter of her heart. The way it skips a beat, seems to sink, once, then twice. How it breaks sequence the instant she spots the flowers on her desk and stops dead just inside her office.





	

_Arrhythmia._

  
It is the sudden, erratic flutt-flutter of her heart. The way it skips a beat, seems to sink, once, then twice. How it breaks sequence the instant she spots the flowers on her desk and stops dead just inside her office.

  
Panic. Anger. Fear.

  
It is the deep but shaky inhale she takes with a hand pressed to her sternum. Standing silently, counting beats, because she can’t reach beyond her own ribs and massage it back to normal. She can only remember to breathe, remind herself that the unsettling pitter-pat is almost always harmless unless prolonged, and try to stay calm.

  
It is the adrenaline that rushes through her veins, the righteous indignation that heats her skin.

  
What the hell is Robbie playing at?

  
“No” means no, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention “I’m in love with someone else.”

  
His charm offensive had lasted a full day and a half. And when that had failed, he had quite literally aired her dirty laundry in full view of everyone on the ward. There was no coming back from that.

  
She doesn’t want to see him ever again, thought she’d made that perfectly clear before kicking him off her ward. But the admittedly beautiful bouquet before her now has some… frightening connotations.

  
She discards her coat and bag, huffs a heavy sigh and approaches the desk.

  
She doesn’t know who put the flowers here, but prays it wasn’t him. It would mean he bypassed every member of staff who witnessed her frog-marching him from AAU with explicit instructions not to come back. It would mean he was alone in her office, in her space, without her consent. It would mean he hadn’t listened, hadn’t respected a single word she’d said.

  
_Hypertension._

  
Leaning one hand on the desk, she sags under the weight of the questions, the worries that settle in her neck and shoulders, stiffening already tense muscles.

She pinches the bridge of her nose then wipes a hand across her brow. Some days are easier than others, to find the strength to cope, to carry on without…

  
But not today. Not now.

  
She pushes the bouquet away as she sits, shoves it from her desk onto Bernie’s. Hopes the distance will make the blooms easier to ignore, the feelings easier to deal with. But leaving them on Bernie’s desk feels worse somehow, wrong, and she stands straight back up, determined to remove them from the office altogether.

  
She sweeps them up in a rush and turns to the doorway, gets a face full of sweet petals as a small envelope falls to the floor.

  
_Tachycardia._

  
It is the acceleration of her heart rate, from somewhat resting to dangerously galloping as she freezes. It is the surprise and sheer relief that Robbie hasn’t sent the flowers after all. It is the soft, rounded sweep of Bernie Wolfe’s distinctive block capitals.

  
Dropping the flower arrangement back on the desk, she stoops quickly to retrieve the envelope before falling weakly into the chair by the wall.

  
Tears in her eyes, she tears at the paper.

  
_Serena,_

_  
It was very wrong of me to leave the way I did._

_I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me for hurting you._

_I am truly sorry._

_I love you._

_  
Yours,_

_Bernie_

  
The hand clamped over her mouth does nothing to catch the sob that escapes her, nor the giddy, hysterical laugh that follows.

  
Hope. Happiness.

  
It is the way her pituitary gland responds in a microsecond, dumps endless endorphins into her bloodstream. It is the way it makes her head swim with a unique kind of euphoria that she’s only ever experienced in Bernie’s presence, when pressed beneath Bernie’s lips.

  
It is the involuntary vasodilation that pinks her cheeks, heats her face and neck down to her collar.

  
It is the way she reads the card over and over again - some of the words, then all of the words, then three little words, and repeat - before she presses it to her lips, hunched over and eyes closed, as if she could absorb what is written into her bones if she holds it there long enough.

  
When her eyes open, she looks upon the discarded bouquet anew.

Full blooms that first appeared muted now burst with color. Pink and green and white morph into magenta and teal and warm ivory, drawing her from her seat until her nose is buried in a peony, her smile wider than it’s been in a month.

  
Then her eyes fly open.

  
If Robbie hadn’t… then who…?

  
Pump, skip, pump-pump. Arrhythmia. Tachycardia. Breathe. Stay calm.

  
Intending to interrogate whoever might be manning the nurses’ station, she turns to leave. Pulls at the door, which had been left hanging open behind her, and she stiffens.

  
_Cardiac arrest._

  
Surely this is what it must feel like. No. Myocardial infarction, perhaps?

  
It is the blood that drains all the way to her feet and the anxiety that seeps into the empty space. It is the literal pain in her chest as electrical impulses go haywire, causing chaotic palpitations. It is the shortness of breath, the light-headedness, the weak knees and dry mouth that seem to happen all at once.

  
It is the sweat that slicks her trembling palms as she wills herself to move instead of stare.

  
It is the olive green coat and brown leather satchel that sit innocently on the chair behind the door.

  
It is the nervous lump she swallows, the quivering breath she sucks in, and the smile she is powerless to prevent as a familiar voice husks low in the doorway.

  
“Hello, Serena.”


End file.
